The Brothers Karamazov

Chapter 2

The Alarm

OUR police captain, Mihail Makarovitch Makarov, a retired
lieutenant-colonel, was a widower and an excellent man. He had only
come to us three years previously, but had won general esteem,
chiefly because he “knew how to keep society together.”
He was never without visitors, and could not have got on without
them. Someone or other was always dining with him; he never sat
down to table without guests. He gave regular dinners, too, on all
sorts of occasions, sometimes most surprising ones. Though the fare
was not recherche, it was abundant. The fish-pies were excellent,
and the wine made up in quantity for what it lacked in quality.

The first room his guests entered was a well fitted
billiard-room, with pictures of English race horses, in black
frames on the walls, an essential decoration, as we all know, for a
bachelor’s billiard-room. There was card playing every
evening at his house, if only at one table. But at frequent
intervals, all the society of our town, with the mammas and young
ladies, assembled at his house to dance. Mihail Makarovitch was a
widower, he did not live alone. His widowed daughter lived with
him, with her two unmarried daughters, grown-up girls, who had
finished their education. They were of agreeable appearance and
lively character, and though everyone knew they would have no
dowry, they attracted all the young men of fashion to their
grandfather’s house.

Mihail Makarovitch was by no means very efficient in his work,
though he performed his duties no worse than many others. To speak
plainly, he was a man of rather narrow education. His understanding
of the limits of his administrative power could not always be
relied upon. It was not so much that he failed to grasp certain
reforms enacted during the present reign, as that he made
conspicuous blunders in his interpretation of them. This was not
from any special lack of intelligence, but from carelessness, for
he was always in to great a hurry to go into the subject.

“I have the heart of a soldier rather than of a
civilian,” he used to say of himself. He had not even formed
a definite idea of the fundamental principles of the reforms
connected with the emancipation of the serfs, and only picked it
up, so to speak, from year to year, involuntarily increasing his
knowledge by practice. And yet he was himself a landowner. Pyotr
Ilyitch knew for certain that he would meet some of Mihail
Makarovitch’s visitors there that evening, but he
didn’t know which. As it happened, at that moment the
prosecutor, and Varvinsky, our district doctor, a young man, who
had only just come to us from Petersburg after taking a brilliant
degree at the Academy of Medicine, were playing whist at the police
captain’s. Ippolit Kirillovitch, the prosecutor (he was
really the deputy prosecutor, but we always called him the
prosecutor), was rather a peculiar man, of about five and thirty,
inclined to be consumptive, and married to a fat and childless
woman. He was vain and irritable, though he had a good intellect,
and even a kind heart. It seemed that all that was wrong with him
was that he had a better opinion of himself than his ability
warranted. And that made him seem constantly uneasy. He had,
moreover, certain higher, even artistic, leanings, towards
psychology, for instance, a special study of the human heart, a
special knowledge of the criminal and his crime. He cherished a
grievance on this ground, considering that he had been passed over
in the service, and being firmly persuaded that in higher spheres
he had not been properly appreciated, and had enemies. In gloomy
moments he even threatened to give up his post, and practise as a
barrister in criminal cases. The unexpected Karamazov case agitated
him profoundly: “It was a case that might well be talked
about all over Russia.” But I am anticipating.

Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov, the young investigating lawyer,
who had only come from Petersburg two months before, was sitting in
the next room with the young ladies. People talked about it
afterwards and wondered that all the gentlemen should, as though
intentionally, on the evening of “the crime” have been
gathered together at the house of the executive authority. Yet it
was perfectly simple and happened quite naturally.

Ippolit Kirillovitch’s wife had had toothache for the last
two days, and he was obliged to go out to escape from her groans.
The doctor, from the very nature of his being, could not spend an
evening except at cards. Nikolay Parfenovitch Nelyudov had been
intending for three days past to drop in that evening at Mihail
Makarovitch’s, so to speak casually, so as slyly to startle
the eldest granddaughter, Olga Mihailovna, by showing that he knew
her secret, that he knew it was her birthday, and that she was
trying to conceal it on purpose, so as not to be obliged to give a
dance. He anticipated a great deal of merriment, many playful jests
about her age, and her being afraid to reveal it, about his knowing
her secret and telling everybody, and so on. The charming young man
was a great adept at such teasing; the ladies had christened him
“the naughty man,” and he seemed to be delighted at the
name. He was extremely well-bred, however, of good family,
education and feelings, and, though leading a life of pleasure, his
sallies were always innocent and in good taste. He was short, and
delicate-looking. On his white, slender, little fingers he always
wore a number of big, glittering rings. When he was engaged in his
official duties, he always became extraordinarily grave, as though
realising his position and the sanctity of the obligations laid
upon him. He had a special gift for mystifying murderers and other
criminals of the peasant class during interrogation, and if he did
not win their respect, he certainly succeeded in arousing their
wonder.

Pyotr Ilyitch was simply dumbfounded when he went into the
police captain’s. He saw instantly that everyone knew. They
had positively thrown down their cards, all were standing up and
talking. Even Nikolay Parfenovitch had left the young ladies and
run in, looking strenuous and ready for action. Pyotr Ilyitch was
met with the astounding news that old Fyodor Pavlovitch really had
been murdered that evening in his own house, murdered and robbed.
The news had only just reached them in the following manner:

Marfa Ignatyevna, the wife of old Grigory, who had been knocked
senseless near the fence, was sleeping soundly in her bed and might
well have slept till morning after the draught she had taken. But,
all of a sudden she waked up, no doubt roused by a fearful
epileptic scream from Smerdyakov, who was lying in the next room
unconscious. That scream always preceded his fits, and always
terrified and upset Marfa Ignatyevna. She could never get
accustomed to it. She jumped up and ran half-awake to
Smerdyakov’s room. But it was dark there, and she could only
hear the invalid beginning to gasp and struggle. Then Marfa
Ignatyevna herself screamed out and was going to call her husband,
but suddenly realised that when she had got up, he was not beside
her in bed. She ran back to the bedstead and began groping with her
hands, but the bed was really empty. Then he must have gone out
where? She ran to the steps and timidly called him. She got no
answer, of course, but she caught the sound of groans far away in
the garden in the darkness. She listened. The groans were repeated,
and it was evident they came from the garden.

“Good Lord! just as it was with Lizaveta
Smerdyashtchaya!” she thought distractedly. She went timidly
down the steps and saw that the gate into the garden was open.

“He must be out there, poor dear,” she thought. She
went up to the gate and all at once she distinctly heard Grigory
calling her by name, Marfa! Marfa!” in a weak, moaning,
dreadful voice.

“Lord, preserve us from harm!” Marfa Ignatyevna
murmured, and ran towards the voice, and that was how she found
Grigory. But she found him not by the fence where he had been
knocked down, but about twenty paces off. It appeared later, that
he had crawled away on coming to himself, and probably had been a
long time getting so far, losing consciousness several times. She
noticed at once that he was covered with blood, and screamed at the
top of her voice. Grigory was muttering incoherently:

But Marfa continued screaming, and seeing that her
master’s window was open and that there was a candle alight
in the window, she ran there and began calling Fyodor Pavlovitch.
But peeping in at the window, she saw a fearful sight. Her master
was lying on his back, motionless, on the floor. His light-coloured
dressing-gown and white shirt were soaked with blood. The candle on
the table brightly lighted up the blood and the motionless dead
face of Fyodor Pavlovitch.

Terror-stricken, Marfa rushed away from the window, ran out of
the garden, drew the bolt of the big gate and ran headlong by the
back way to the neighbour, Marya Konndratyevna. Both mother and
daughter were asleep, but they waked up at Marfa’s desperate
and persistent screaming and knocking at the shutter. Marfa,
shrieking and screaming incoherently, managed to tell them the main
fact, and to beg for assistance. It happened that Foma had come
back from his wanderings and was staying the night with them. They
got him up immediately and all three ran to the scene of the crime.
On the way, Marya Kondratyevna remembered that at about eight
o’clock she heard a dreadful scream from their garden, and
this was no doubt Grigory’s scream, “Parricide!”
uttered when he caught hold of Mitya’s leg.

“Some one person screamed out and then was silent,”
Marya Kondratyevna explained as she ran. Running to the place where
Grigory lay, the two women with the help of Foma carried him to the
lodge. They lighted a candle and saw that Smerdyakov was no better,
that he was writhing in convulsions, his eyes fixed in a squint,
and that foam was flowing from his lips. They moistened
Grigory’s forehead with water mixed with vinager, and the
water revived him at once. He asked immediately:

“Is the master murdered?”

Then Foma and both the women ran to the house and saw this time
that not only the window, but also the door into the garden was
wide open, though Fyodor Pavlovitch had for the last week locked
himself in every night and did not allow even Grigory to come in on
any pretext. Seeing that door open, they were afraid to go in to
Fyodor Pavlovitch “for fear anything should happen
afterwards.” And when they returned to Grigory, the old man
told them to go straight to the police captain. Marya Kondratyevna
ran there and gave the alarm to the whole party at the police
captain’s. She arrived only five minutes before Pyotr
Ilyitch, so that his story came, not as his own surmise and theory,
but as the direct conformation by a witness, of the theory held by
all, as to the identity of the criminal (a theory he had in the
bottom of his heart refused to believe till that moment).

It was resolved to act with energy. The deputy police inspector
of the town was commissioned to take four witnesses, to enter
Fyodor Pavlovitch’s house and there to open an inquiry on the
spot, according to the regular forms, which I will not go into
here. The district doctor, a zealous man, new to his work, almost
insisted on accompanying the police captain, the prosecutor, and
the investigating lawyer.

I will note briefly that Fyodor Pavlovitch was found to be quite
dead, with his skull battered in. But with what? Most likely with
the same weapon with which Grigory had been attacked. And
immediately that weapon was found, Grigory, to whom all possible
medical assistance was at once given, described in a weak and
breaking voice how he had been knocked down. They began looking
with a lantern by the fence and found the brass pestle dropped in a
most conspicuous place on the garden path. There were no signs of
disturbance in the room where Fyodor Pavlovitch was lying. But by
the bed, behind the screen, they picked up from the floor a big and
thick envelope with the inscription: “A present of three
thousand roubles for my angel Grushenka, if she is willing to
come.” And below had been added by Fyodor Pavlovitch,
“For my little chicken.” There were three seals of red
sealing-wax on the envelope, but it had been torn open and was
empty: the money had been removed. They found also on the floor a
piece of narrow pink ribbon, with which the envelope had been tied
up.

One piece of Pyotr Ilyitch’s evidence made a great
impression on the prosecutor and the investigating magistrate,
namely, his idea that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would shoot himself
before daybreak, that he had resolved to do so, had spoken of it to
Ilyitch, had taken the pistols, loaded them before him, written a
letter, put it in his pocket, etc. When Pyotr Ilyitch, though still
unwilling to believe in it, threatened to tell someone so as to
prevent the suicide, Mitya had answered grinning:
“You’ll be too late.” So they must make haste to
Mokroe to find the criminal, before he really did shoot
himself.

“That’s clear, that’s clear!” repeated
the prosecutor in great excitement. “That’s just the
way with mad fellows like that: ‘I shall kill myself
to-morrow, so I’ll make merry till I die!’”

The story of how he had bought the wine and provisions excited
the prosecutor more than ever.

“Do you remember the fellow that murdered a merchant
called Olsufyev, gentlemen? He stole fifteen hundred, went at once
to have his hair curled, and then, without even hiding the money,
carrying it almost in his hand in the same way, he went off to the
girls.”

All were delayed, however, by the inquiry, the search, and the
formalities, etc., in the house of Fyodor Pavlovitch. It all took
time and so, two hours before starting, they sent on ahead to
Mokroe the officer of the rural police, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch
Schmertsov, who had arrived in the town the morning before to get
his pay. He was instructed to avoid raising the alarm when he
reached Mokroe, but to keep constant watch over the
“criminal” till the arrival of the proper authorities,
to procure also witnesses for the arrest, police constables, and so
on. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch did as he was told, preserving his
incognito, and giving no one but his old acquaintance, Trifon
Borissovitch, the slightest hint of his secret business. He had
spoken to him just before Mitya met the landlord in the balcony,
looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change in Trifon
Borissovitch’s face and voice. So neither Mitya nor anyone
else knew that he was being watched. The box with the pistols had
been carried off by Trifon Borissovitch and put in a suitable
place. Only after four o’clock, almost at sunrise, all the
officials, the police captain, the prosecutor, the investigating
lawyer, drove up in two carriages, each drawn by three horses. The
doctor remained at Fyodor Pavlovitch’s to make a post-mortem
next day on the body. But he was particularly interested in the
condition of the servant, Smerdyakov.

“Such violent and protracted epileptic fits, recurring
continually for twenty-four hours, are rarely to be met with, and
are of interest to science,” he declared enthusiastically to
his companions, and as they left they laughingly congratulated him
on his find. The prosecutor and the investigating lawyer distinctly
remembered the doctor’s saying that Smerdyakov could not
outlive the night.

After these long, but I think necessary explanations, we will
return to that moment of our tale at which we broke off.